Executio
by bluntblade
Summary: The end of a Legion, and a tale that will never be told within the Imperium


_Melodrama has no place in this galaxy._

The weather would seem to disagree, as lightning illuminates power armour and rain splatters the warriors, dripping from bolter muzzles, hissing as it meets power blades and soaking the pelts of two wolves. One shakes itself and water flies off, an incongruous sight amidst the thousands of rigid Astartes and the ten taller figures on the hill of rubble; nine standing, one kneeling in the mud and wreckage.

The Lord of Drakes casts his eyes over the ruin of a Legion, along with all its auxiliary elements- it's easier than looking at the crumpled giant on the hilltop, but still painful, knowing it is partly his handiwork. Not the dead here- the Salamanders did their work miles away, part of the anvil on which the Wolves broke their erstwhile brothers. He still wonders about the decision which brought the hammer down so quickly- the Gorgon always preferred to wait, give the enemy time to expose themselves- and wonders whether it sprang from that primal understanding of ambush tactics, or a fury that overrode any thought of strategy.

The Crimson King suspects the former; that deep strike had been perfect. The enemy had just enough time to understand what was coming, but before they could begin to respond the Wolves were among them. _I never imagined it. A Legion Astartes, undone. And now we know why they name themselves the Rout_. Even his sons had been thrown by the suddenness of it all, but that meant little now they were no longer facing a wall of steel and ceramite. With the foe in convulsions they piled in, for once following his brother's savage lead. Too quick for doubt and remorse to slow them- until the deed was done.

The Death Lord feels cheated by that speed. Another chance to prove himself and his Legion, ripped from his hands. The blood and grime of the battle coats him, but in truth the Death Guard did little but sweep the wreckage aside. They could have bled the enemy dry, but the Wolf King had to dominate the operation. _Does he fear that unless he was seen to lead us, our father might not care so much for His Executioner?_

Still, the resentment pales beside the disgust that builds when he catches sight of the other. Even the Warlock, steeped in Warp-filth, can't inspire such revulsion. He is truly glad of the rebreather; it spares him having to breathe the same air as that… renegade.

The Gorgon might be expected to show the same choler. After all, stories abound of the terror he has visited on non-compliant human worlds, and Astartes who have seen the Immortals shudder at the thought of how such an unforgiving soul came to be.

Instead, the burn scars on his face are contorted with anguish. The sudden end of the battle denied him catharsis, and now he numbly grapples with loss and doubt. His silver eyes examine the thing that used to be his brother, lingering on the hideous changes in its flesh. Somehow, they are fouler than those that once afflicted the Thousand Sons, perhaps because they do not seem to have come from within. He picks up a battered shoulder guard, gazing at an emblem which will no longer invoke pride in men across the Galaxy. No, this Legion allowed something to take root in them. Impure.

Now the choler returns, and he aches to push the Executioner aside and deliver the blow himself. The shoulder guard crumples between silver fingers. _No. Father entrusted this task to him. Defiance can only do more harm._ Instead he turns his anger inward, against the potential that has been revealed in them all. Potential that must be guarded against. So, as lightning momentarily washes out the colours of the assembled armies, he begins to frame a new injunction for his sons. _It does not matter whether our bodies are those of the Emperor's chosen or mortals. Without strength of mind, the flesh is weak._

For the Urizen, the answer to this catastrophe is simple, and requires no such introspection. The events of the day have left him shattered, and even as the familiar, righteous anger burns in him it cannot take away that grief. As with the Gorgon, he finds a measure of solace in solutions. _Faith elevates us Humanity above the xeno, and the heretic has shared in that faithlessness._ Salvation lies further down the road which his Word Bearers already tread. He does noes not fear for their loyalty, but as for the rest…

 _We must redouble our efforts. Simple allegiance will not suffice; every world we bring into the fold will worship Him. We will not rest until His praises ring across the galaxy. An arduous task, but when it is completed, the Galaxy will never again know the depredations of the alien._

A whisper of noise draws his eyes up, a fraction ahead of his brothers and the assembled Legions. The broken figure's' eyes do no not rise, and the Urizen feels pity, despite his zealous fury. After all, who could meet the gaze of divine judgement?

The Lord of Ultramar watches a golden ship emerge from the clouds even as a flurry of smaller, white craft streak past it. The smaller ships diverge into two formations, explained as they draw closer and he can perceive the differences in heraldry. Even at a time like this, the Warhawk seeks distance between himself and his father. _And most of us_ , he notes as the Scars touch down by the Sons.

Somehow it rankles with him, how the Luna Wolves' ships form up around the golden craft. The favoured sons either flaunt their position, or attempt to compensate for their absence. _Perhaps the hardest task that ever fell to one of us, and he was not the one to take it up._ Neither had he, for that matter, but it was simply not his task. To jostle for position in such a way is unseemly, especially when feelings are so raw. _Not my Wyrd,_ he thinks as his eyes cross to the figure stood atop the hill. _Well, I understand mine. The Imperium needs building as well as conquering._

The hive cities will obscure the history of this world more effectively than any exterminatus. Planed smooth, this battlefield will become nondescript habitation blocks. Along with the tribute worlds of the broken Legion, it will be folded smoothly into Ultramar's expanse. He grieves inwardly at the loss, but his duty must take precedent. In this, he will preserve what he can of his brother's legacy.

The Warhawk has seen those plans and acknowledges their good sense. However, they also worry him. That the most orthodox Legion should be elevated in such a way sends a subtle warning to the rest. Deviance from the norm has, quite understandably, become much more dangerous. He also dislikes the implications that it has for the truth. He has already communicated with the Angel, and after this he must confer with the Crimson King and the Lupercal. Otherwise this disaster will deliver the Librarius straight to the witch-hunters. That, as much as anything else, is what has brought him racing across two segments to bear witness here.

His eyes flicker across his sons. They always strained at the bonds of authority and he wonders how the new constraints will sit with them. Some will surely flout them quietly, penning verse which can never find an audience. Emotions such as these cannot be put to rest in simple combat; there is a fundamental wrongness to what happened here. He finds himself at a loss as to what he should feel. They are bound so tightly by the psychic energies their father invested in them, yet the figure on his knees is all but a stranger to him. The Warhawk saw neither his rise nor his descent. He cannot share in his brothers' anger, nor can he truly feel their grief.

In contrast, the Lupercal's humours rage enough for two as he walks beside his father. The broken form awaiting them was once a brother and comrade-in-arms who he mentored and fought beside for years. He meets the gaze of the Wolf King and his warring emotions intensify, profound gratitude that he was spared this task mingling with concern for his brother. And underneath, as he picks his way around an upended Land Raider, a current of doubt. _Had I not been at your side, could I have done what my brothers have done here? And was there something I could have done to save him?_ His father seems to sense his unease and turns to him. Through the sorrow, he detects a quiet pride and places a gauntlet on the Lupercal's shoulder. No words pass between them, but he feels his father's pride and trust in him, a portion of that psychic majesty channelled directly into him. He recalls that first meeting in the bloody cavern, following his father to the surface and the promise made as they scanned the skies; stars they had since liberated by the thousand. No words would suffice as a reply; the Moon Wolf simply nods, and goes to stand with his brothers.

Even then, his four advisers hang behind. They are quickly growing used to a Primarch's company and their new responsibilities, but even they are wary of his volatile humours at this time. He cannot share in the Warhawk's detached coolness, though his brother has attempted to explain this. The Lupercal cannot perceive the beauty wrought by the necessity and completeness of the battle fought here. To him it is _aebathan_ \- necessary and mercifully swift, but bereft of any beauty. Enough. He puts aside his own thoughts, and takes his place, just another part of an event so much larger than himself.

The Emperor ascends the hill alone, even his two closest companions peeling off to remain with the Primarchs. Reaching out to the minds of his soldiers, he begins the difficult task of commending their actions even as the veil of secrecy is lowered over their victory. Assured that their conduct has been of the highest standard, upholding the Crusade's ideals in the most trying circumstances, the Space Marines depart with their heads held high.

The Moon Wolf sneaks a glance at his quartet of counsellors; the largest of their number easily visible, even through the dirty rain, in the huge plate of his newly christened elite. From this day they will be indispensable. For above all, he must keep himself… he casts an eye over the mighty figures around him before remembering his most beloved brother, and the ghost of a smile crosses his face. _On the side of the angels_.

Eleven heads bow as the Emperor reaches the Executioner, and even the two wolves slink back, ears flat and eyes wide. A golden hand reaches out. The Wolf King reads the intent in his father's eyes, and looks down at the broken brother at his feet. His rage was spent during the terrible battle, quenched by the blood that coats his armour. Now he feels the terrible weight of his duty, but no matter. He has carried it this far and it must be seen through to the end.

The Emperor's hand closes on the proferred frostblade and the Wolf King steps back, as the crippled warrior raises his eyes at last. The Primarchs feel the build-up of great and terrible power; they never hear the words but there can be no doubt of their meaning as their father straightens up, and the frostblade blazes with golden light. The Wolf King hesitates, first at the nature of the power infusing his sword, and then at its terrible potential. Then his face hardens, and he lifts it once again.

The blade descends. For a moment, the battlefield is saturated with golden light. Then a sighing wind sweeps across the landscape, and a Legion is no more.


End file.
